


flirting with fire

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Enemies to Lovers, Fuckbuddies, Gay Billy Hargrove, Harassment, M/M, Miscommunication, Rivals, Small Towns, Steve Harrington Is Kind of a Dick, Steve Harrington Is a Mess, Stupidity, Unhealthy Obsession, all of his friends are basically way too patient so please suspend your disbelief on that, anyone else would absolutely throw their hands in the air and walk away, billy is also a dick, instead of just boning, no one is good at feelings or articulating them, steve is incredibly oblivious and out of the loop, they're both dicks, two emotionally stunted assholes use an ancient high school rivalry to flirt with each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Steve's a cop, Billy's a firefighter. It's not agrudge, it's just a regular old small town rivalry.





	flirting with fire

**Author's Note:**

> see end note for warnings

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Can we just skip the foreplay and get to you giving me the ticket already, Harrington?”

Steve clenches his teeth. Then, he smiles with them, nice and wide and friendly. “That’s _Officer_ Harrington to you, Hargrove.”

Undeterred, Billy puts his palm out the window, fingers wide and waiting. He looks at Steve from behind his polarized aviators. Steve can’t see his blue eyes, but he knows, if he could, they would be shining with a familiar challenge.

“Cut the shit,” Billy says. “Fork it over. I know it’s already half written.”

It is. Maybe.

But that doesn’t mean that Steve’s not going to make Billy _wait_ for it.

“I’ll ask again,” Steve says, tapping at his ticket book with blunt nails. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Hargrove?”

There’s a beat. Just a moment where Billy is silent. Then, Billy puts on his nicest smile, the one that he uses to charm lonely housewives, the one that made him the most popular guy in high school, back when he first came to Hawkins. “Why don’t you tell me, Officer?”

“You were going twenty-nine in a twenty-five,” Steve tells him. “That’s the third time this month. There’s a _school_ around the corner.”

The school is actually three blocks down and _then_ around the corner, but who’s really counting? Billy Hargrove is a _menace. _There could be _kids_ here; it’s a neighborhood.

Something in Billy’s jaw twitches, but the smile doesn’t drop. He’s way too practiced for that, way too composed. When he wants to be, anyway.

“I’m real sorry, Officer. Any chance you could let me off with a warning?”

It’s a familiar song and dance.

“Warnings aren’t for chronic offenders,” Steve says. “Now, if you’ll hang tight, I’ll get your ticket ready for you.”

Billy’s head moves a little as he glances at the ticket book in Steve’s hands. “I’m pretty sure you can just put the date on that and hand it over. I’m positive we both have more important things to be doing than _this_,” Billy says.

Steve doesn’t, actually. And he knows Billy doesn't either. It’s not like he’s on the job today, even though he’s wearing his _Hawkins Co. Fire Dept. _tee. But Billy wears those literally _every_ day. He must have about twenty of them, all in a dark navy, the only difference between them being that some more faded and threadbare than others. Sometimes, when Steve sees Billy in the _Stop ‘N Shop_ at three in the morning, he’ll be wearing one that he must’ve got when he was still a new recruit, so threadbare now that it’s nearly see-through, so soft-looking that it Steve can practically imagine how comfortable it must be.

“This’ll only take a minute,” Steve says, patting the top of Billy’s Camaro, hard enough that he sees Billy wince. “Well. The system is running a little slow today, so -- maybe about fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Oh come _on_,” Billy shouts from his car, muffled, as Steve walks back to his cruiser.

Steve can’t help but smile.

\--

Hawkins is a small town with small town problems.

When Steve first joined the force, he had delusions of grandeur. Visions of epic chase scenes and brilliant detective work. A whole vast world of adventurous possibilities in front of him.

A couple years actually _on _the job really put a damper on that.

Mostly, Steve just issues parking tickets, speeding tickets, and the occasional ticket for running the mostly-hidden stop sign on South Main. Occasionally, during a routine traffic stop, he gets to make an arrest for driving inebriated -- but ever since Hawkins PD initiated sobriety checkpoints on weekend nights back when Steve was still in high school, Hawkins’ drunk driving problem has really abated. Which is _good_, because Steve’s seen those wrecks, has seen what that can do to people. He’d much rather spend his time as a crossing guard on Tuesdays and Thursdays, helping with elementary school let-out, than have to go to someone’s home to deliver bad news.

The most interesting calls Steve gets these days are about domestic disturbances, but those aren’t _fun_; they’re just _depressing_.

He doesn’t even get to rescue kittens from trees. Because _that_ falls under _Hawkins Fire Department_ jurisdiction, which means that whenever someone calls 911 about how little _Twinkle Toes _is stuck up in the tree _again_, Steve has to call the Fire Department, which basically just means _Billy_, who inevitably is always the one who picks up the phone, and also always the one who gets to actually do the job, further endearing him to basically _everyone_ in Hawkins.

It’s bullshit, really.

It’s like the universe wants Steve to be bored as hell.

At least he gets to eat all the donuts he wants, and he gets to bug Hopper on the daily, which is always a favorite pass-time of Steve’s, even from back before he joined the force.

Then again, that _also_ means that Steve has to work out _more_, because he _doesn’t_ have the metabolism he used to in high school -- and Hopper is the one who’s responsible for signing off on Steve’s performance eval’s at the end of the year, which means that if Steve actually _wants_ a raise, maybe he should stop giving Hop so much shit all the time.

\--

“That’s five for Hargrove just this month,” Hopper says, eyeing Steve’s stack of monthly reports. It’s half a statement, half a question. It’s definitely a conversation they’ve had before, that’s for sure. Steve kind of knows it by rote.

Then again, everything about small town life is familiar. Everything’s happened before, and everything will happen again, the same exact way.

“He has no respect for the speed limit,” Steve says.

“Sure,” the Chief says. “But neither does does your friend Hernandez.”

“Hey, I’ve given Tommy H. his fair share of tickets,” Steve counters. “His car’s just been on blocks for the last few months, so he’s been forced to carpool with Carol.”

Hopper rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because _that’s _safer.”

Carol’s actually a pretty safe driver, despite what Hop might think. She just happens to speed. A _lot_. She’s also pretty decent at talking herself out of tickets with most of the people on the force. Steve, to his credit, rarely actually pulls her over. He’s got a soft spot for her, ever since she mediated this _huge fight_ Tommy and Steve had back in senior year, which basically saved their lifelong friendship from a total falling-out.

A falling out that was basically precipitated by the arrival of one Billy Hargrove.

But that’s old news.

“Look, Chief, it’s not like I have a grudge,” Steve says.

“For the record,” Hop says, “_you’re _the one who brought that up. And I absolutely _do_ think you have a grudge, Harrington.” Then, he shrugs. “But Hargrove _is_ speeding, and you _are _bringing in revenue for the station. Just -- tone it down a little before he files a complaint for harassment, will you? He’s not a delinquent; he’s a _firefighter_, for christ’s sake.”

Steve’s teeth click together as he clenches his jaw.

“I’m just doing my job,” Steve says. Even to his own ears it sounds half-formed, petulant.

Hop sighs. “Yeah. Okay, sure. Meeting over, Harrington. Get out of my office.”

Steve makes a mental note not to give Billy another ticket this month. Sure, there’s only a few days left _in_ the month -- but it’s the thought that counts, right?

\--

Steve moved out of his parent’s house in Loch Nora right after getting his associates at the local community college. He couldn’t stand living in that giant, empty house all alone. His parents probably would’ve let him, because it’s not like they’re ever _there _\-- but Steve didn’t want to. He was already moving back to the small town he grew up in, he didn’t want to _also_ move back in with his rents.

Hawkins isn’t exactly crawling for great real estate, but there was a boom in the late nineties that left a surplus of affordable shit pretty consistently open for recent grads.

Steve rents a condo in an area that isn’t exactly the _nicest_, but it’s not the worst, either. His condo is _technically_ a studio, since it doesn’t exactly have a _bedroom _ \-- but there’s a loft above the kitchen, which keeps Steve’s bed out of the way and gives him the illusion of some extra space. He would definitely call it a one-bed, but whatever. Real estate is weird.

When he first moved out, he paid for his rent out of his trust fund. He knows that it’s bogus and kind of a cop-out, but his parents set that fund up for him back when he was a kid, and Steve has to do _something_ with it. It’s not like he was just going to let that money sit while he moped around the shell of the house he grew up in while his parents jetted around Europe in their retirement.

He makes enough now that he can comfortably pay his rent _and_ eat _and_ make payments on his car. He even has some furniture that’s not from Ikea (mostly because the Ikea is three hours away, and who has time for that?), including a dining room table big enough to have _multiple_ people over at. He doesn’t do it too often, but sometimes he has the kids over, the ones he used to babysit back in the day, to watch movies, now that they’re all in college and they sometimes need a place to hang to get away from parents who want to know what they’re going to do with the rest of their lives. Steve doesn’t _care_ what they do, as long as their immediate plans are to pick up after themselves and stay out of his loft. Sometimes he has Robin or Jonathan and Nancy and Barb over, too -- but he’s not much of a host.

He tried to keep plants in his apartment, but threw that attempt in the trash after some brutal murders of what were advertised as _extremely_ low maintenance plants. It’s fine, though. He doesn’t need plants to keep him company. It’s not like he’s _lonely_. He’s got a ton of friends and coworkers and everything.

Steve kicks his feet up on his couch and sprawls, _Blue Planet_ on in the background as he facetimes Nancy.

“Yeah, I’m just saying,” Steve says, as Nancy makes a face on the screen. “I _know_ his schedule. He works every Monday and Wednesday, but I fucking _saw _him on Thursday afternoon in the grocery store in his fucking uniform, Nance, I saw him.”

“Uh huh,” Nancy says.

“Just because he knows he looks good in it doesn’t mean he gets to _flaunt it_ all the time,” Steve says. “You don’t see me wearing my uniform all the time, just to pick people up.”

“To be fair, Steve, public opinion about _police_ isn’t exactly --”

“Okay, _yeah_,” he says, before she can finish, because he _knows_. It’s one of the reasons he joined the force to begin with, because he knew he couldn’t do much with his life, but he knew he could be a _good_ cop. Well. Mostly. To everyone except Hargrove. “That’s not the point. The point is that he’s using his uniform to _get some_.”

Billy struts around Hawkins in his stupid uniform and the chicks go _insane_, all heart eyes for the stud who’s too good for small town life but is still here anyway, gracing everyone with his presence like some kind of _god_.

Nancy purses her lips. “Steve, high school was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, _and_?”

Literally no one is saying it wasn’t. That’s so far outside relevant that it honestly throws Steve for a loop.

“Maybe you should reflect on why you hate him so much,” Nancy suggests.

“It’s not, like, a _grudge_,” Steve says. “He just rubs me the wrong way. People just _do_ that, it’s a thing, Nance.”

“Steve,” she says.

“It’s _mutual_, you know. He hates me too. I don’t need to reflect on it.”

Nancy sighs. She closes her eyes. “Okay. _Okay_,” she says. “Let me tell you about my new story.”

“_Yes_,” Steve says, both happy to back away from the subject of _Billy_, and also always happy to hear about the articles Nancy is working on.

She mostly does investigative shit, even has a pretty popular podcast about government conspiracies (Hawkins was the center of a huge toxic spill cover-up, back in the 80’s, making it prime real estate for that sort of thing), and everything she touches is deeply interesting. Steve’s always hooked, mostly also because Nancy has this ability to make _anything_ interesting and easy to digest, which is probably why her podcast is so popular. It’s also the only reason Steve managed to pass high school at all -- she tutored him through all of history and english, because otherwise he just couldn’t get _into_ it.

Nancy signs off on their conversation with a “_just think about it, Steve_” and honestly, it gives Steve a headache for the rest of the night, because normally Nancy isn’t confusing at _all_.

\--

“You can’t eat pop tarts as an adult. Especially not the frosted ones. Do you _know_ how much sugar those have in them?” Steve hears from his left.

It’s late at night. Nearly eleven. Steve should be asleep. Instead, he’s grocery shopping. And being judged, apparently.

He’d know Billy Hargrove’s voice anywhere. The guy spent so long harassing Steve in high school, Steve can practically hear it in his _dreams_.

“We can’t all be instagram fitness models,” Steve says. “Someone has to keep Kellogg’s in business.”

“No, actually, they _don’t_. That’s not the way the free market works,” Billy says with a shrug. “Besides, I don’t think the sale of --” Billy looks at the box in Steve’s hand and frowns, “_Strawberry Milkshake Poptarts_ to one small town cop is making it _or_ breaking it for them.”

“Did you _want_ something?” Steve asks.

He’s got plenty of healthy stuff in his cart, too. Like every kind of green they have at the store, because Steve’s on this crazy smoothie kick. Unfortunately, that also means he’s been drinking his calories and not, like, _chewing_, so he’s been feeling pretty _snacky_ lately. But, he doesn’t point at his cart and make Billy _look_, because he doesn’t need that kind of validation from _Billy Hargrove_.

Steve _does _throw the box of poptarts into his cart with a toss of his hand, though. Billy’s eyes follow the movement as the box lands with a tumble next to some kale and watercress. _Neat_.

“Wait,” Billy says, eyes bright. Like he’s delighted to have spotted some sort of _weakness_. “Do you follow my insta?”

“_No_,” Steve says, emphatically. He does _not_ follow Billy’s instagram, he just knows that Billy _has_ one, because it’s a recommended account basically every time Steve opens his app, because they have enough mutual friends. And, if he’s looked at Billy’s instagram a few times, it’s only because they went to high school together and sometimes Steve gets curious to see what people are up to. Not that he doesn’t know what Billy’s up to. He knows Billy’s schedule, for god’s sake, because their town is so small and it’s hard _not_ to. It’s just -- they were high school rivals, that’s all. It’s hard to sometimes leave the past behind.

“You should. I curate it pretty well,” Billy says. “A few thousand other people agree.”

Not like Billy follows _Steve_ or anything.

Sure, Steve posts maybe twice a year, three, _max_, but _still_.

“Are you done?” Steve asks. “Because I’m kinda trying to shop in peace, here.”

“_Ooh_,” Billy says, a pleased smile finding its way onto his face. “Are you gonna give me a ticket for loitering, Officer?”

“I _could_,” Steve says, even though he absolutely couldn’t.

Billy smiles a little bit wider.

“Why don’t you go flirt with Mrs. Ferguson in the produce aisle,” Steve suggests. “I heard she’s going through a rough patch with Mr. Ferguson right now.”

Because flirting with lonely housewives seems to be Billy’s _favorite_ pastime. There’s not a single woman in all of Hawkins who Billy hasn’t charmed the pants (or skirts, dresses, or even overalls) off of. Steve’s been stuck behind him in line at the checkout before and has had to suffer through _way_ too long of Billy flirting with the poor cashier. Sure, the cashier hadn’t seemed to _mind_, because no one hates being smiled at by Billy Hargrove, but _still_. It was inconvenient for basically everyone involved.

“Oh, I think I _will_,” Billy says. “Thanks for the scoop, Harrington.”

Steve watches the retreating line of Billy’s shoulders as he turns and leaves. His H_awkins Fire_ tee pulls taut over the muscles of his back. It looks _soft. _The _Hawkins Police_ tee’s are never cut right, never worth wearing until they’re threadbare.

Billy’s retreat doesn’t feel much like a victory.

\--

It’s not that Steve’s just a dick to Billy.

Billy’s a dick to Steve, too.

Sometimes. He tends to oscillate between _asshole_ and _overly friendly_ because he knows that kind of inconsistency drives Steve up a wall.

So, when Hargrove shows up to the station while Steve’s on duty, wearing most of his stupid _uniform_, like he’s about to _fight _a _fire_, with a box of donuts in hand, Steve doesn’t know which to expect.

He flirts with Martha at the front desk and then walks the box of donuts around the station like he owns the place, offering a donut to every person there by _name_. They’re the good donuts, from _Sugar Shack_, the place that makes them twice the size as normal, with, like, sugary breakfast cereal glued to the top with an excessively delicious amount of icing. Steve desperately wants one. Billy _knows_ Steve’s a sucker for sugar.

It’s not really a surprise that Billy makes it to Steve’s desk last, zig-zagging his way around the station in a way that’s way too premeditated to be random at all, even though he tries to make it seem that way.

“Oh shit,” Billy says, when he makes it to Steve’s desk. He pouts, but his eyes are sharp, devious. “Looks like I’m out,” Billy says.

Steve looks at the empty box, at the crumbs and frosting stuck to the cardboard. One of the donuts was definitely fruit loops. Another, strawberry -- but like, the homemade kind, with real strawberries. His mouth waters. His gut churns. He wants to punch Billy in the _face_. He didn’t do that nearly enough in high school.

A sigh bubbles up from his chest, but Steve swallows it down, tapping his pencil aggressively against the desk.

“Cool,” Steve says. “Then you have no reason to, like, _linger_.”

“Better luck next time,” Billy says.

This is _not_ the first time this has happened. Steve might as well bet on his luck next time being just about the same.

\--

“You wanna buy a copy of the charity calendar this year?” Robin asks over brunch at the diner.

Steve takes a vicious chomp of his bacon. “Is Hargrove on the cover again?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “If I say _yes_, you won’t buy it, will you, dingus?” She takes a sip of coffee, eyes on him over the mug. “So: no.”

“You know, I’d appreciate the truth, Rob.”

“Okay, _yeah_, he’s on the cover, but once you hang it up, you won’t even have to _see_ the cover,” she says, spearing a breakfast potato. She smears it in some syrup and then pops it into her mouth like punctuation. “I mean, unless you wanted to.”

Steve narrows his eyebrows. “Why would I want to?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Okay, don’t _just say_, then.” There’s no way Steve would buy a fire department charity calendar _just_ to stare at the cover of it and it’s stupid to even talk about.

“He’s an objectively sexy man, Steve. It’s okay to look at him.”

“Just because he’s the hottest guy in Hawkins doesn’t mean _I’m_ attracted to him, Rob.”

Robin makes a face. “See, that’s _not_ what I said.”

“Okay, but, like, he _is_. Objectively. I _get_ why he’s on the cover of the charity calendar _every year_, it’s just, like, a fact of the universe. Five out of five housewives agree.”

Robin opens her mouth. Then, after a second, she closes it. Her lips are pressed together, thin. Back in high school, she used to wear cherry red lipstick. Now, she doesn’t wear much of anything. Mascara or glittery eyeshadow, _maybe_, if she’s going out to a party. But even those days are fewer and further between than they used to be. There was a hot second, back in the day, that Steve had a crush on her, back before he knew she was only into girls. He’s glad things worked out the way they did -- he can’t think of a better best friend than Robin Buckley. Even though she gives Steve shit, like, _constantly_.

“Look, I have to sell, like ten of these calendars,” Robin says, finally. “Will you please just buy one?” She raises her eyebrows. “Or two? Three?”

“I’ll buy _one_,” Steve says. “Only because you work there too and I love and support you. But I’m not putting it up and you can’t make me.”

“Yeah, _okay_,” she says, pulling out her phone to mark down the sale. “Thanks, Harrington. I’m marking you down for three.”

Steve groans.

Robin lets him have the rest of her bacon, though, so he _guesses_ he can just trash them, later.

\--

Sure, Steve hates Billy, but when he gets called out to a scene where the fire department’s there and Hargrove isn’t on duty_,_ Steve can’t help but be a little disappointed.

Billy and Robin usually work together, too, so if Billy isn’t there, that means Robin isn’t there, which means that Steve is stuck with Brad or Anthony, or Marco, trying to liaise in a way that’s way more professional and _friendly_ than he’s used to. With Billy, it’s all hard edges and snark -- but with the rest of the squad, Steve has to be an actual adult about it.

Not that he didn’t go to high school with Marco, not that he didn’t date Anthony’s cousin, not that he didn’t mow Brad’s parents lawn back when he was thirteen, when Brad went off to State. Sure, they all _know_ each other -- it’s a small goddamn town -- but it’s just not the same.

“It’s just a small electrical fire,” Marco tells Steve, when he pulls the cruiser up outside old Mr. Murphy’s house. The guy was old when Steve was in high school, which means he’s probably _ancient_ now. Basically the cryptkeeper.

“Everyone alright?” Steve asks, eyeing the ambulance.

Marco nods. “Yeah. We’re just giving Mr. Murphy some oxygen. Really, the guy shouldn’t be living alone,” he says. Then, “Someone will need to contact his family to tell them what happened. See if they can get him into a home.”

“Yeah, I’ll make the call,” Steve says. “I’ll see if I can get that ball rolling.”

“Oh! Speaking of ball,” Marco says. “Are you coming to the cook-out next Friday? We’re trying to get enough people to get some pick-up games going. Whaddya say? I know you and Hargrove used to play together, back in school.”

Steve makes a face. He hadn’t exactly been _planning _on going to the fire department’s monthly cookout, but there’s also really not much to do in Hawkins. Robin’s scheduled on shift, so Steve already knows that he’ll probably stop by, barring any police emergencies. Besides, the department usually shows up, at least in some form or fashion. But he _wasn’t_ planning on sticking around for longer than a few minutes, and he definitely wasn’t planning on playing pickup basketball.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve played,” Steve says.

“I literally saw you shooting hoops the other day in the park.”

Steve scowls. He’d been trying to blow off some steam, that’s all.

“I’m not really looking to dredge up an old high school rivalry with Hargrove,” Steve says, trying a different angle.

“You could play on the same team,” Marco suggests. “We could do shirts and skins, instead of the firehouse versus the force. Billy’ll take any excuse to play skins.”

He’s saying it like _that_ sweetens the pot, somehow.

Steve is pretty sure you couldn’t pay Billy to do _any_ sport in his shirt. It’s public indecency, is what it is.

“I’ll think about it,” Steve says, meaning _probably not_.

He doesn’t want to relive basketball practice, with Billy grinding against him, half naked, just so that Billy can show off for an audience. Besides: he doesn’t need Steve to do that. It’s, like, his _thing_.

Marco pats him on the shoulder as he’s leaving and says, “I’ll see you there, man!”

\--

“Are you gonna give me a ticket?” Billy asks.

“You pretty much rolled through that stop sign, Hargrove,” Steve says.

The lights from the cruiser are flashing from behind him, red and blue. Billy’s face keeps lighting up warm, then cold, light catching on all his angles, making him look sharp, then soft, and then sharp again.

“You know, you really don’t have to pull me over just to get my attention,” Billy says, face sliding into an easy grin.

It’s late. Billy’s coming off his shift, which means he _should_ be tired, exhausted, but he’s not. He just looks a little sleepy, a little soft, and a lot like he’s dialing up the charm to a hundred. Not like it’ll _get_ him anywhere. But he still tries, like he’s incapable of turning it _off_.

“This is a school zone.”

“It’s eleven at night,” Billy says. “I think just about everyone’s in bed, already. That’s where I’m heading, actually, care to join me?”

Steve balks. Billy must be in a good mood -- he’s normally not _quite_ so overt. Ever since Steve came out as bi in college, Billy’s seemed to take that as an open invitation to flirt with him when he’s not being an egregious asshole. Like Steve’s attraction to guys means he’d _obviously_ be attracted to Billy and would therefore be exploitable or easily flustered. Steve can’t decide if it’s rude or ignorant or just plain egotistical. Knowing Billy, maybe it’s all three.

What Steve knows for certain, though, is that Billy clearly just likes to flirt. He likes the sound of his own voice and he likes making people flustered, even if it’s not for any particular gain. He just finds it _fun_, always looking delighted when he throws on the charm. Not much has changed since high school.

Steve feels hot with annoyance. He tries to pull his professionalism back from wherever it went to hide the second he saw the Camaro speeding down the street, when he saw it go rolling through that stop.

“I don’t need to tell you that that won’t get you anywhere,” Steve warns.

“Not even into bed with you?” Billy asks.

“_Hargrove_.”

Billy laughs. It’s loud in the quiet of the street. No one else is around, just Steve and Billy, and the chirping of the crickets from the brush.

“Okay, okay. You never answered me, baby -- you gonna give me a ticket?”

“I _was_ going to let you off with a warning, given the _time_,” Steve says, bristling over the easy way _baby_ rolls off of Billy’s tongue “But --.” He snaps his mouth shut, annoyed at how _flustered_ Billy has already made him, even though Steve _knows_ his game.

Knowing that he’s being played apparently changes _nothing_.

“But?” Billy asks, eyebrows raised, like he somehow _doesn’t know_ that he’s annoyed Steve.

“Look, just this once I’ll give you a warning,” Steve says. “But you’re not Carol, you can’t _charm_ yourself out of a ticket.”

Knowing Carol, she might’ve done more than just _charm_, before. But no one’s ever accused her of being a _prude_, and he’s certainly not trying to give Billy any ideas about what he can try to pull on any of the cops at the station.

“You didn’t even give me a _chance _to try and charm you,” Billy says.

“You know that I can _arrest you_, right?” Steve says, jaw clenching. “I can _do _that. Don’t test me, Hargrove.”

Billy looks delighted for a split second -- then his whole demeanor shifts, like he’s putting on a _role, _playing a part. He pouts, lower lip going all big, eyes going just a little wide and watery. “Oh, don’t arrest me Officer, I’ll do _anything_ to keep it off my record.” He gives Steve a slow once over, eyes drifting down, and then up Steve’s body. “_Anything_.”

The tone is so perfect, so sultry and tempting. He sounds a little concerned about his _record_, and more than a little desirous. For a second, for _one second_, Steve thinks Billy’s being _serious_. That he’s actually offering…

Then, reality hits like a punch to the gut.

Steve’s body goes _hot_ underneath his uniform. He feels a little bit like he’s gonna choke.

He straightens up, smacks the top of Billy’s car a little _too_ hard, and takes a solid step back. Like maybe if he can put enough space between Billy and himself, he’ll feel less suffocated.

“Get _out _of here, Hargrove. That’s your first and only warning.”

\--

“I think I need to get laid,” Steve says.

He’s at dinner at Nancy and Jonathan’s house. They have a small little place together on Reed, full of bookshelves overflowing with books Steve hasn’t read and weird art Steve doesn’t understand. They do dinner almost every week, a habit that started ever since Jonathan got really into cooking a few years ago and Steve voiced that he was willing to try anything.

Nancy and Steve perch on stools at the breakfast bar as usual, sipping wine and keeping Jonathan company while he works away at the stove. Sometimes Barb joins them, sometimes she doesn’t. She’s working late tonight, so Nancy promised to save her leftovers.

“What makes you say that?” Nancy asks, always a little careful when it comes to the subject of Steve dating.

Steve’s not sure if that’s because she thinks he’s _fragile_, or what. She knows he’s _not_. She and Jonathan started dating, back in high school, when she and Steve were still dating. Steve _knew_ about it, sure -- their relationship was pretty _open_ \-- but eventually, she dumped Steve to date Jonathan full time, and Steve handled that just _fine_.

(Maybe he made out with Jonathan once or twice before the end, to try and see if they could make the three of them work as a whole thing, but it hadn’t clicked. Steve and Jonathan are just -- not compatible in a relationship. Jonathan is too much of -- well, not of Steve’s type, that’s for sure.)

“It's been a while, is all,” Steve says, shrugging. “Does it have to be deep?”

“No,” she says. “I was just wondering what made you think of it, that’s all.”

“We support you, Steve,” Jonathan says. Ever helpful.

“Okay, are you looking for something casual, or more permanent?” Nancy asks.

Steve makes a confused noise. “I don’t _know_, I just want to get laid, Nance. I’m not trying to, like, self-reflect, here.”

“So, you’re open to either,” Jonathan fills in.

Steve nods and points at him. “Yes, that. _That_.”

“Figuring out what you’re looking for could really help narrow down your choices, though,” Nancy says.

“Hawkins is the size of a postage stamp. My choices are already pretty _narrow_,” Steve says.

Everyone knows everyone in Hawkins. Steve will either have to try his luck in a nearby city, or he’ll have to sleep with an ex, basically. Neither of those options are really _great, _though. High school and college were really the only great times to really find a solid relationship, he thinks, and he came out of both of those with nada. Other than his friends, of course. But it’s not quite the same.

“There’s definitely...some options in Hawkins,” Nancy says.

“_Some_,” Steve says. “That’s my problem.”

“Yep, _that’s_ your problem,” Jonathan says, under his breath and sarcastic, as he pushes some mushrooms around in a pan. The are like 4 different kinds of them. Steve’s pretty sure Jonathan found some of them _outside_. In the woods. He might die tonight, from mushroom poisoning, or from Nancy and Jonathan’s snark combined. He’s not sure which, yet -- it’s definitely up in the air.

“You guys are supposed to _support_ me,” Steve says. “Not be huge assholes about my love life. It’s not _my_ fault you found love in, like, high school and you’re bored of the rest of us actually having to _try_.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe you found love in high school, too?” Nancy asks.

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Nancy,” Jonathan says, sounding _way_ too patient and also _way_ too tired at the same time.

“I’m just saying!” she says.

“What are you saying?” Steve asks. “That I, like, fell in love in high school and just _forgot_ about it? I dated, like, dozens of people in high school. You think one of them was _the one_?”

Nancy purses her lips. “No, I mean, not _exactly…”_

“Dinner’s ready,” Jonathan announces loudly, setting plates down on the counter in front of the two of them with a definitive clatter.

From there, the conversation is forgotten, lost in the shuffle between pasta and mushroom sauce made with wine, between glasses of even better wine and more gentle ribbing.

Steve forgets all about it until he gets home, until he’s drifting off to sleep, mind wandering to the empty, fluorescent halls of his high school, looking for someone he forgot about a long time ago.

\--

Steve tries, generally, not to be stressed out about things.

That doesn’t really _work_ for him, but he still tries anyway, always giving it a valiant effort of distracting himself with just about anything when he’s trying to avoid thinking about something in particular. Today, he’s given five tickets already with a speed-trap set up right on Randolph Road, where people tend to drive faster than sin because there’s nothing there other than woods. It’s a popular biking spot for kids, though, so Steve likes to set up there to discourage _egregious_ speeding.

The firehouse cookout is rapidly approaching, only a day away. It looms on the horizon, larger than life, even though Steve has literally _no_ reason to dread it. He _likes_ cookouts, and he generally _likes_ the people who attend them, up to and including, like, ninety-nine percent of the Hawkins fire department.

Billy Hargrove -- not even the guy himself, but the mere _possibility _of him -- shouldn’t ruin something for Steve, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference. There’s dread in the pit of Steve’s stomach, an aching gnawing feeling, at the idea that he’s not just supposed to _see_ Billy, but he’s supposed to play _basketball_ with Billy. It’s not like Steve hasn’t interacted with Billy, like, his whole adult life so far -- but after high school, it’s almost always on Steve’s terms, other than when Billy surprises him in the grocery store or at work. And, for whatever reason, it’s been getting _worse_ lately. Harder to deal with on the daily. Like a balloon filling, getting ready to pop.

Billy’s been on Steve’s mind all week, enough so that when Steve hears -- and then sees -- the blue Camaro whip past him on the street where he’s parked for a speed-trap, he thinks he might just be imagining things. Billy can’t possibly be _everywhere_ all at once, right?

He slams on his lights and sirens anyway.

Steve can almost hear Billy cursing as he watches the familiar car pull over to the side of the road about a hundred yards up. At least _that_ makes delight curl in Steve’s stomach.

From here, though, it’s familiar ground. Steve takes his time walking up to Billy’s car. He taps on Billy’s window with two knuckles and waits for Billy to roll the window down.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” Steve asks.

Steve’s got his hat on today. Usually that’s the first thing Billy makes fun of. It happens so often that he’s _prepared_ for it, waiting for it. But instead, Billy’s scowling at him, looking more royally pissed off than usual.

Then, Billy’s throwing his door open and _getting out of his car_. Instead of backing away from him, Steve should _stop _him. That’s, like, _totally_ against procedure and protocol. Normally, when civilians get out of their car at a traffic stop when they’re not _asked_ to, it’s grounds for immediate unease. And sure, Steve should be uneasy, he _is_ uneasy, but Billy Hargrove angling for a fight? There’s nothing more familiar in the entire world.

Standing before him, Billy’s only about an inch shorter than Steve, but he makes up for it in his presence. Billy’s always been larger than life -- better, faster, stronger, _hotter_ than anyone else in Hawkins, and always ready to prove it. Right now, he’s all of those things and also like a wild animal, face in a snarl, already grabbing at the collar of Steve’s uniform shirt.

Billy is, as usual, wearing a Hawkins Fire tee. Steve’s hands immediately find his upper arms, fingers catching against warm skin and soft cotton as Billy pulls him close.

“Okay, _look_, Harrington, what the _fuck _is your problem with me?”

“What the fuck is my -- my _what_?” Steve says. “You were speeding, I’m doing my _job_!”

Billy laughs, loud and mean. “Jesus, that’s rich.” His fingers shift and tighten against Steve’s shirt. “You know, if it was literally _anyone else_ I would think this was _blatant homophobia. _But it’s _not_, so I don’t know _what_ to think, Harrington.”

Steve’s head swims a little bit, Billy’s _so close_, right up in his face. “What?” That doesn’t make any sense at all. Billy is straight and Steve is bi, and -- Homophobia...doesn’t _work_ that way? As far as Steve _knows?_

But Billy doesn’t _clarify_, he just plows on ahead, like what he’s saying makes any sense at all.

“And then I thought, _okay_, _maybe he’s kicking my shins, pulling my pigtails, trying to get my attention._”

“_What?”_

“But then, _nothing!_” Billy shoves at him a little, frustrated. Steve would stumble back if Billy wasn’t holding onto him.

Steve’s head feels like static. He’s so fucking _confused_.

“So what _is_ it, Harrington? It can’t be some stupid high school rivalry, because you and Tommy H., like, _hated_ each other senior year, and you’ve been tight again since he and Carol got hitched. Same with Toso and Spears, you seem fine with _them_, even though you three got into that huge fight after we tanked at states, junior year. So, why the fuck do you _hate_ me? What is your _problem_ with me_?_”

Steve swallows. His fingers are bunched in the fabric of Billy’s shirt, stretching out the sleeves.

“I don’t -- _hate _you?” Steve says, lost as _shit_. It’s like Billy’s fifteen steps ahead of him in a math problem, and Steve doesn’t even have a calculator and he’s dyslexic as hell. “You were speeding?”

“I was fine with it when I thought it was just some fun, when I thought maybe it was just you trying to get my attention. But it’s clearly _not_, and I can’t keep paying all these tickets, man. We make about the same amount of money. But, _jesus_, you just won’t _stop_. ”

Billy’s face goes a little hard, twisting back into a snarl as he shoves Steve back, finally letting go of his collar, leaving Steve to stumble backwards and attempt to get his footing again.

Then, Billy’s squaring off his shoulders and standing tall. Looking _mean_ and determined. “This is _harassment_, Harrington. I could _sue_ you.”

Steve’s stomach does something funny. It takes Steve a second to realize what it is -- but then it hits him: excitement. The familiar feeling of truly gearing up for a fight.

“Are you gonna hit me?” Steve says, trying to grapple for something, for familiar ground. It would -- be easier if Billy tried to hit him, instead of talking shit that didn’t make any _sense_.

Billy _laughs_. Loud. It bounces strangely off the trees around them, sounding muffled and echoing, all at once.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Billy says.

“That’d be assault of an officer,” Steve says. “That’s a _felony_.”

It feels like he’s always threatening Billy with _something_, but nothing ever makes Billy flinch.

Billy just looks at Steve for a long time, then, going still and quiet. Steve doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know what to do if Billy’s not pushing back, so he just lets it happen. Then, finally, Billy just _sighs_ and opens the door to his car, half turning away from Steve, like it’s not dangerous to put his back to an opponent. Like he doesn’t even _care_.

“So, are you gonna give me a ticket, Officer?” Billy asks. “Or am I free to go?”

Steve swallows.

He doesn’t know what just happened, what that was all _about _\-- all he knows is that he has about a million questions and less than zero answers.

Sure, he could give Billy a ticket for speeding, because he _was_ going ten over -- but now? Steve doesn’t even really _want_ to anymore.

“You’re free to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:**  
\- steve is a cop in this story who abuses his power by relentlessly harassing billy with no real remorse. if that is gonna bother you, this is probably not the story for you!  
\- this story is written in a lighthearted manner, but reiterating again here that steve is a _dick_. the lightheartedness does not cancel out the fact that he is clearly being unprofessional, unethical, and is blatantly harassing someone who doesn't understand why.  
\- the briefest of mentions of drunk driving casualties.  
\- threats of arrest, probably also eventual threats of arson.  
\- discussion of sexual favors to get out of tickets/trouble with police.
> 
> **notes:**  
\- as always, this was written entirely in comic sans. so, please imagine it as such.  
\- _twinkle toes_ was the name of my neighbor’s cat in dublin. it had six toes on each foot and was just _so mean_. it is the best cat name i have encountered so far in my entire life.  
\- i don’t actually know if strawberry milkshake poptarts are any good, but they are definitely a thing that exist on god’s green earth, that's for sure.  
\- _sugar shack_ is a small dmv donut chain. they make the best donuts and i _will_ fight you over it. just pretend it exists in small town indiana, instead.
> 
>   
if you've got the time and the inclination, i would always love a comment! 
> 
> you can catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite) or [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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